The Hangover: Sherlock style
by coolcox14
Summary: John is hungover. Very hungover. So what the hell happened last night? John doesn't remember, Lestrade certainly doesn't remember, and as for Sherlock - well, he doesn't remember per se, but he can probably find out...


**It's daft, but I had fun! There could well be more chapters, although I should probably finish the other stuff I'm writing first...**

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John Watson opened his eyes – slowly – and was immediately bludgeoned by the blindingly bright light which streamed in through the half-drawn curtains. Hastily, he snapped his eyelids shut; the force of the action caused a dull thump to reverberate around his skull, clanging against the sides of his head like a bowling ball. John groaned slightly (and quickly stopped, as it only served to make his head throb more angrily). He was hungover. Horribly so. Briefly, he muddily considered the possibility of just never getting up; then he agonisingly opened a single eye to read his alarm clock – 1030am. He should get up.

Bracing himself, he heaved his eyes open and sat up. The bedroom swam into bleary focus and span slightly, floating towards him through a haze of grogginess. His mouth was dry, his tongue like sandpaper, and his stomach lurched ominously. This wasn't good. A hangover this bad could only be preceded by a very messy night. With considerable trepidation, John cast his mind back to the night before.

Nothing. John blinked bemusedly. Surely he must remember something. He shook his head minutely, trying to clear some of the wooziness from his mind. Last night it was New Year's Eve. He and Sherlock had gone to meet Lestrade for drinks – Sherlock rather reluctantly, as he recalled. They had met in The Eagle; John had bought the first round. And then... blankness. John began to feel somewhat alarmed. The last time he had forgotten an entire night had been in Medical School, after his finals: and that, it transpired, had not been a terribly dignified evening. This was _not_ good.

He hauled himself from his bed and looked himself down. He was still clothed anyway – a good sign, at least – wearing the shirt he had worn the night before and a pair of boxers. His jumper (a woolly one with a gaudy reindeer pattern) was wrapped around his left foot. Untangling himself with some difficulty – his balance, like his memories, had yet to return to him – he pulled off his shirt and scooped up a fresh T-shirt and a ratty pair of tracksuit bottoms. Wincing slightly with every movement, he exited his room.

In the living room, he found a certain detective inspector laying in a heap in the armchair, snoring daintily, his shirt half-unbuttoned and wearing only one shoe. John smiled slightly in spite of his headache: the sight of Lestrade looking so _unpolice-like_ tickled him. Indeed, Lestrade had the blithe look of a man who was unknowingly about to be steamrolled by a hangover of monstrous proportions. Deciding to leave him in peace, John hobbled into the kitchen with the intention of making some breakfast. He had hardly crossed the threshold, however, when he heard a moan from behind him.

"Fuuuuuuuucking hell." John retreated to find Lestrade rubbing his eyes furiously.

"Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade, how are you feeling on this fine morning?" John chirped in as bright a voice as he could muster.

"Fuck me John, have I died?"

"Sadly not, mate, but if it's any consolation, I feel about as bad as you look," John sighed, cringing as the other man's loud expletives hammered into his fragile ears.

"I highly doubt that," Lestrade muttered darkly. "Although," he added, glancing at John with bloodshot eyes, "you do look pretty fucking terrible."

"Thanks, Greg," John murmured sardonically as he made to return to the kitchen. Lestrade gave another moan.

"Oh _fuck_."

"What?"

"We got Sherlock smashed, didn't we?" Lestrade looked over at John with an expression of mixed awe and horror. John paused.

"I think we might have," he hesitantly agreed. Lestrade laughed.

"Well if only I could remember it, I'm sure it must have been fucking hilarious," Lestrade said wistfully.

"So you don't remember what happened either?" John raised his eyebrows as Lestrade screwed his eyes shut.

"...nope, not a thing. Probably just as well," he added as he pulled himself from the armchair, "'coz I think I'd have to arrest myself for being drunk and disorderly".

The pair made their sorry way into the kitchen. John irritably shoved aside a set of test tubes – today was _not_ a day for Sherlock's experiments – and clumsily reached for the kettle. Lestrade slumped down onto the table, dark lines encircling his eyes, his grey hair looking distinctly dishevelled. For a moment, neither man spoke: content to wallow in the pain of their own conditions. And then –

"JOHN!"

"What?"

"I've just noticed it, I wasn't really looking before –"

"_What_, Greg?

"Your ear, John," Lestrade gasped, as he dissolved into splutters of laughter. "Just... go and look in the mirror." With considerable trepidation, John rushed past the sniggering police officer to the mirror in the sitting room.

For a heartbeat, John couldn't see what was wrong. And then he saw it: on a patch of skin on his right ear which glowed bright red like an angry traffic light, sat an ugly silver stud, obstinate and brazen. An earring. A bloody earring. John Watson was now the less-than-proud owner of a stupid bloody earring. He raised a hand, rather dumbstruck, and tugged at his earlobe; he winced at the tenderness, as it seemed to throb even brighter. His hangover immediately became infinitely worse. How – _how_ – had he let this happen? He stormed back to face Lestrade, who was now bent over the table, giggling gently.

"John, stop making me laugh, it hurts my head too much –"

"_What happened_?!" John said weakly, sitting down heavily and massaging his forehead.

"I really can't remember, but this is brilliant. Oh look, it's the right one too – doesn't that mean that you're gay or something? Fuck, I owe Donovan ten quid."

"Right, shut up, I'm taking it out. And for the last time, I am _not_ gay," John muttered bleakly. But before he got the chance to remove the offending article, he was interrupted by the sound of the other inhabitant of 221B.

"John? John! Come quickly, I think I need to go to hospital." Sherlock's deep baritone, sounding uncharacteristically weak, came floating down the hall. John and Lestrade exchanged alarmed looks.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" The pair rushed to Sherlock's room. Inside they were met by the sight of the consulting detective sprawled across the bed, wearing only one sock and a pair of dark blue boxers, his porcelain torso glowing brightly in the dim light. He moaned pathetically, his slender hands wrapped around his head.

"Sherlock, are you OK?"

"Obviously not, you idiot. And why are you even in my flat, Lestrade? Do you have a case you're too imbecilic to solve yourself?"

"Sherlock, describe what's wrong," John said firmly, crouching by the bed – although he already had a growing suspicion. Sherlock screwed up his face.

"My head. It feels as though someone's hit me with a hammer. Every time I move, it aches." John smirked at Lestrade.

"Uh-huh?"

"And I feel nauseous. I've vomited twice."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. My mouth, it feels... _furry_. I'm dying, John. _Dying_." John stood up – his head span alarmingly – and tried not to sound too mocking.

"Well, as a qualified doctor, I think I've come up with a diagnosis. Don't worry, you're not dying."

"Small mercy," came Sherlock's voice, muffled as he dropped his head to his duvet. "What is it, then? Have I been poisoned?"

"Sherlock, you've got a hangover." Beside him, Lestrade burst into a fit of laughter (wincing slightly as his head banged in response). Sherlock's forehead creased into a dark line.

"I – oh. Oh." He rolled over languidly and looked from Lestrade to John. "You got me drunk, didn't you?" John nodded apologetically, as Sherlock fixed him with a characteristically intense glare. "Why do even you bother drinking, John, if it makes you feel this awful?"

"Have you really _never_ had a hangover?" Lestrade interrupted incredulously. "How can a former junkie have never gotten drunk? You've taken crack cocaine, heroin, amphetamines –"

"– morphine," Sherlock interjected.

"– morphine; hang on, I never knew about _that_!"

"Um, well, forget that. It's the hangover talking," Sherlock said hastily, placing his hands over his head.

"Right, well. You've gotten high off God knows how many types of drugs, but not alcohol?!"

"Those all speed you up, get your mind working faster," Sherlock said slowly, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Alcohol slows things down. I don't like what it does to my reasoning capabilities."

"Of course," Lestrade sniggered, as Sherlock gave another pitiful groan. John, feeling a little sorry for his eccentric flatmate – after all, for a first hangover, this had to be a bitch – reached forward and patted him on the ankle.

"Come on, I'll get you a cup of coffee and a paracetamol." Sherlock mumbled something into his hands. "Make that a few paracetamol. You get dressed."

Lestrade and John made to leave the room; they had almost reached the door, when Sherlock suddenly called out after them.

"John, is that an _earring_?!"


End file.
